It’s been a little over a year now since I first tried to kill myself. I’ve dealt with severe depression and anxiety for most of my life, the first most prevalent episodes occurring right at the inception of puberty. I must have been twelve or so when I resolved myself to suicide. I didn’t mean to fail at killing myself. I chose overdose, I probably shouldn’t mention the specific drug, but I ingested 500 pills in a single sitting and then went to sleep, content to finally die (I was a month from being 20 at this point). I had written suicide notes before, but on my first real attempt, I didn’t write a note or a will or anything of significance. I don’t believe in God or any kind of higher power, I was ready to leave knowing it was simply the end of my existence.

Since then, I’ve started going back to school while struggling to maintain almost full time work. It’s tough, but it’s a cakewalk compared to what is going through my mind at every given point in the day. I’ve become much more pensive since I tried to kill myself, and here over a year later I think I finally realized something pretty crucial. I’ve had the same best friend for thirteen years, I have a very caring brother, and although my biological parents are separated, they each have since remarried and are very active in my life. I realized, though, maybe even just today that I don’t love any of them.

I caught myself thinking the other day about what kind of life insurance policy my dad has. My aunt says there are generally two kinds of people; those who are naturally homocidal and those who are naturally suicidal. You’ve probably guessed my type, so you shouldn’t worry about me harming my own father. However, I had to stop myself from thinking about how much it would help me financially if he died. The sad part is that his father died from heart-related issues when he was around my dad’s age, so there’s a real possibility and that just doesn’t affect me. I have this horrible habit of easily getting tired of people, and while I’m too polite to mention it aloud, this attitude lends to me distancing myself from people who say they care. I actually even went almost two years without speaking with my biological father during high school and I would’ve been content keeping it that way. It isn’t that my father has done anything terrible, he’s actually a great man and I respect him a lot, which is why he was the best example I could think of. I think that perhaps I am incapable of love in any capacity and I know, as a matter of fact, that none of these people know who I am.

There is one exception to my condition that I’ve found so far, but she ultimately only brought me more pain. I dated a girl my senior year of high school into my first year at university. She’s the only person I can say confidently that I’ve loved in any capacity, and it’s possible that she is the only person I have ever cared about. Her final decision to leave me was the pushing factor at the bottom of that bottle of pills. I’ve seen other people since her, but nobody has compared (it’s probably also important to mention that I’d be dead if she hadn’t called my parents). A little over a year later, we’ve rekindled our friendship but she has no interest in seeing me romantically again, despite a few passionate kisses over the course of this summer. She’s still the only person that I’ve ever loved, and frankly spending time with her can be difficult sometimes, but I also know that if she wasn’t in my life, a secondary attempt would have already occurred.

I stopped seeing my therapist and got off of my medication when I went back to school. I didn’t have time to see a therapist I’d lie to anyways and after spending a week in a mental institution, I had no desire to take meds. The only reason I’ve even written any of this is because my mind was casually stuck at “I wonder if the gun safe is open”. Next is probably the worst part but let me preface it by saying I don’t currently intend on attempting suicide again. I still count my failed attempt as one of my biggest regrets or mistakes ever. You think, sure naturally, but you don’t understand. I wanted to be dead, and that feeling hasn’t really left me since I woke up in a hospital bed. For a long time, and sometimes even now, I felt so cheated like death was what I deserved. I’m not a heavy guy, I go back and forth from 145-150 and the dosage I took should have killed a man of over twice that size. Why am I not dead?

I feel ridiculous, trying to tell my story like it matters, but the broken parts of me thought that maybe just telling it is enough. I’m not entirely sure what else I hope to get out of this.

Your life seems very lonely indeed and I am sorry for what you are going through.

There are so many people who are at a loss specially in today’s unforgiving society.

I do know a number of success stories where these people lives were turned around after discovering the true value of their lives and their true value as human beings. I hope that you would just read my whole post instead of ignoring it. It might be the answer you are looking for.

I am talking about a strong faith. You said that you don’t believe in God and I respect that. But many people got to this conclusion from all the negative things they heard or read without really bothering to see for themselves. So, if you have time, would you consider looking at one book and then make a logical or reasonable conclusion. This book is called “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist” by Frank Turek. Without using the Bible, except at the end, it shows how science point to a deity. I just hope that you would consider this.